Some months later, I sat on the bridge over the Kishwaukee River again.  It was the end of summer.  Cicadas buzzed.  The sky was a bit overcast.

I had been creating pieces for Ceremonies at random.  A sentence, a paragraph, a page, a scene, a short story.  I felt no leading to use a traditional structure.  No beginning, middle and end.  Pieces of all kinds accumulated.

Swinging my legs over the river, I started writing a list of observations about a young girl I named Valentine.  Then I wrote a description of her.